


Even monsters love

by SuperImposed



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Absolutely Barbaric(TM), Can't Believe I have To Populate This Relationship Tag Myself, Eventual Smut, Fun fact reynaulds tag deleted itself on the first pass bc he doesnt want to be here i guess, Medium!Heir, Mild Transphobia, No beta we die like poor Dismas my first rjn, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Pre-Canon, Psychic!Heir, References to Torture, Rescue, Transphobia, it's not the focus and doesn't happen a lot if you're worried, romance and sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:36:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperImposed/pseuds/SuperImposed
Summary: An Heir decants a Monster from a Dungeon. Sounds like a bar joke, but is just a Meet-Cute in the Darkest Universe.(Heir rescues the Abomination pre-canon and ~someone~ catches feelings.)
Relationships: Abomination/Heir (Darkest Dungeon)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

Here we go, he thought, as voices reached his ears, I've finally gone mad.

But no, the people - humans, many in protective garb, none dressed as the Cultists - continued to exist, walking into view as the noise continued.

"Poor bastard," the one in the lead said, wrinkling their nose as they unlocked the cell. "Didn't even bother with a burial, eh?"

Ah.

He needs to do... something, here.

"I'm not dead yet," but amazed he can still speak - it's been too long since food, since water, longer still since light and hope-

One interloper jumps and yelps, surprising the leader. They clutch the first person's arm: "H- you're _alive!?_ "

(Later, he may think to wonder why the _leader_ didn't react til their fellow did.)

\---

The leader is the only one willing to get close - all the rest, even the literal hanger-on, fall back before they've half-crossed the cell. But the leader strides up without hesitation and looks up at him, with a critical eye and fists on their hips.

"Are you going to die in the next ten minutes?"

He coughs to clear his throat, and it hurts like a bitch, but: "No."

They nod, and turn to the others. "Assistant, go back to the third cell and send the Medic here when he's done, will you?"

The Assistant's squeak of affirmation and dash out the door breaks the spell on the others - they shift, some pulling back, others wandering away.

The Leader picks up a discarded stool, dusts it off, tests its weight, and climbs up. They lean on the wall next to him, close enough to feel body heat if not for those layers, and don't flinch from his inhuman eyes or the letter stamped into his skull.

"I intend to remove you from this place," they say, tone even and eyes steady, "but it will take some time. You're not the... only one we've found."

He nods. That's sensible.

"I won't ask your name, yet, and I won't tell you mine - this isn't the place for that sort of thing." Also sensible. They raise a gloved hand, slowly. "May I touch you?"

He hesitates. _They don't know, do they_? If they knew, they wouldn't...

It's been so long. He nods.

"...you're certain?" He nods again. "Very well."

The hand comes up - he can't help but flinch. "Easy, love. Shall I stop?" He manages to shake his head, and...

Even the rubbered texture of the gloves is better than anything he's felt in so long, human warmth escaping from underneath. They stroke the edge of his jaw, careful of his throat, careful of his _scar_ , and if he had the water for it he would _cry_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited slightly 2/15


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> funfax i didn't even think abt the date when I posted the first chapter
> 
> (Heir is genderfluid)
> 
> (Reynauld is the Designated Asshole, apologies to people who like him.)  
> (...I may be unconsciously retaliating for Kleptomania)

The next time he wakes, he's in a _bed_. A real bed, with linens and everything!

The leader of the pack of rescuers - he remembers them, keeping him company, helping pour water... all over him, he hadn't been especially conscious, but enough into his mouth for respite - the Leader is sitting next to this bed.

Someone's taken the time to wipe some of the grime off of him, which feels wonderful, but... they have to know, right?

But they're... smiling, at him.

"Good morning." Their hand - no longer gloved - touches his, a gentle squeeze, before they stand. "Do you feel well enough to eat- well, drink some broth?" He nods, and their hand slips entirely away, and he immediately misses it, deeply. "Good. Stay here - I'll be right back." As if he were in condition to _move_ \- he snorts, and they shoot a rueful smile at him before disappearing.

The little room is cramped and plain, but the height of luxury compared to his roomier, _emptier_ , filthy cell. There's even a window, sunlight filtering through cracks in the rough curtains, and he could _cry_.

\---

He wakes in fits and starts. The Leader -his rescuer- helps him bathe, and tells him (with much prompting) how long it's been since he was taken.

(It grips his heart, but it's better to know.)

He breathes easier. Feeds himself. Starts walking across the room in fits and starts.

Learns his rescuer's name (Mardes) ("Sounds a trace familiar." "Like 'murders'?" "...ah." "My family has always been a bit... morbid and gothic.") and shares his own (Adam) ("I think... it's been some time since anyone called me by it." "Then I'll use it often, Adam.").

\---

"You don't know what I am."

"I do know, love." They smooth warm fingers over his brand, and his words leave him. They pull back. "I'm not- if you're in the ocean, I'm in a _millpond_ ," they say, with a humorless smile, "but I know a little of what it feels like to be persecuted for things you cannot control or change... or wish to."

\---

Messengers come.

The Crusader reeks of loathing as he proffers the letter.

His rescuer looks at the envelope with palpable disdain.

"And what does dear old dad need so badly that he'll break the silence, I wonder?"


	3. Chapter 3

"I will _not_ leave my patient on his own!"

He shouldn't be touched. He shouldn't _allow_ it, _encourage_ it, but his throat's closed up with tears.

\---

It's a bigger problem than either of them realized.

Everyone - including the rugged man who is _clearly_ a former criminal at the very **least** \- goes a little green as Mardes rereads the letter and the Crusader gruffly outlines what he knows. It sounds like Hell itself has broken loose on the world.

The Abomination sways on his feet, but manages to hold his savior's gaze when he says: "I'm coming with you."


	4. Chapter 4

The Crusader - name of Reynauld - glares across the cabin, even under the helm. Dismas, the supposedly-former Highwayman, leans against the side of the carriage and, by all appearances, falls asleep.

The gentle gaze so often turned on _him_ is icy and distant for the Crusader, untroubled by the obstacle of the visor. The Heir's fingers dig into their knees at every bump, and determinedly do **_not_** look out the windows.

The Abomination - _Adam_ , and how long has it been since anyone called him a proper name? But of course Mardes insists- manages a few glances under the dusty curtains, when he can muster the courage to ignore the Crusader.

The sky and lands beyond begin to, very slowly, warp and discolor.

Cold sweat crawls down his back. His breath steams, even as his head pounds and feels unreasonably warm.

The carriage jolts so sharply that they're all thrown together, Dismas yelping where he jams an elbow against steel plate, Mardes' cold glare dropping to surprise as Adam clumsily tries to catch them.

 _Now_ they peer out the window, mouth twisting sharply. "What- why isn't he _slowing_ -" which is about when the SECOND lurch hits, and-


	5. Chapter 5

Adam, who can't transform like this - _not with his head pounding, scent of hunt scent of fear scent of **hate** in his nose; not with wild distant laughter and screaming trees and bloody sky around him, not like **this**_ \- cautiously hefts the insensate Mardes over his shoulder.

(He's worried - fucking _terrified_ \- but the head wound has already nearly stopped bleeding and their neck feels sound and their eyes dilate properly, and in just moments the woods have already begun to close around them.

They have to _get out of here_.)

Dismas has a bruised cheek and Reynauld's shaken his arm out a few times, but they're more hale and wary than he or the recumbent Heir. They take point. Dismas' shadowed gaze flits rapid about the narrow clearing, but he and the Crusader hold steady. Adam wonders if it was like this when they first set out.

Pistol fire interrupts any further thoughts he may have.

\---

The Bandits are- the Bandits _are._

_Fuck._

He struggles to fathom how anyone can stand to stay here ( _the trees whisper and groan, deer unliving and serpents undying undulating in the copses, burnt blood invites him to HOWL and HOWL til the world **stops**_ ) amongst the horror, but their eyes were pitted or tarry or too-wet or red and goat-slit and he has an answer, for all he now wishes to return it.

He doesn't avert his gaze from the _things_ , hanging in the trees - nor does Mardes, now-wakeful and cold silent on his back.

(Every now and again the Heir twitches, hearing something even his sharp ears cannot catch - or perhaps he's not handling them with adequate care. He shifts the load more cautiously, and their knuckles rub down his clavicle a moment.)

Finally, the wretched woods break onto a gap, leading down a hill to the shambles of a town.

Mardes chuckles dryly, tiredly clinging to his shoulders.

"Home sweet home."


	6. Chapter 6

Well.

At least he walks free, here. They've yet to break the rest of the chains, but he may go where he likes.

(Even here, wherever he goes, they still flinch at the sight of him.)

"Be _nice_ ," Mardes had growled at Reynauld, while a stoic woman in Plague Doctor garb closed their quartet. "Or at least be _decent_."

The Crusader gave them a long look, slapped down his visor, and silently sallied forth.

As soon as he'd recovered some strength (terrifyingly easy, here, the _blood lust hate fear pain pain **pain**_ and **_OTHER-_** ness scents reminding too well of the Cultists, how they forced transformations, forced unnatural strength into his limbs and bloodlust into his mind-)

As soon as true strength returns, he joins the Expeditions.

(A bawdy, rough Hellion called them 'ex-PERDITIONS', to drunken laughter; she wasn't wrong.)

\---

They're bad. They're all bad.

They are, to a one, **bad**. At _best_.

Even the best _**hurt**_ , leave blood on the stone and horrors on the mind.

The worst...

The Abomination shudders, pulls his cloak about him and edges closer to the Outsider's campfire.

Even monsters still feel fear.


	7. Chapter 7

It had taken time, but suspicions mounted every time a group returned fewer than they had left, and Mardes greeted them somber and quiet.

When the Heir inspected each path before it opened to expedition, and had barely _looked_ at the 'Darkest Dungeon' before saying " **Nope** " and banning them all from so much as _thinking_ about it for a full year.

When Adam and his, somehow, full group returned from an unexpected encounter - a horrible skull-cage of a geist, flocked by its undead fellows, fell shrieks still ringing in his ears - and the Heir had been unearthly pale and queasy, before he'd even started the report.

(Distracted, too, rubbing their ears or twitching to look about at times.)

The Heir had powers he knew not. He glimpsed, at times, them batting away wafts of smoke which shrieked and dispersed; he'd stared at them long enough to see that whatever bespelled this place hadn't warped them as it had so many others.

They hummed paternosters or hymns or other sepulchral-sounding ditties, absently muttered the Lord's Prayer, and the very air around them seemed to clear, at times.

They smiled wanly, when he asked, and confirmed his suspicions.

"A gift from dear old dad and all my other horrible fucking Ancestors, I suppose," they said, rolling a thumb over a rosary with practiced ease.

\---

Mardes never joins them on Expeditions, for which he can only be grateful.

They're no warrior, no rogue, and the Heir is well aware of how great a liability their presence may present.

(He tries to show compassion to his fellows, but the Abomination knows well how far he'd go to assure the survival of that singular person.

...The sacrifice of an entire party is not too great a price.)

Instead, they can be found about the town and manor, each crumbling in their own ways. The warriors and experts clear domains and retrieve heirlooms and gold and trinkets, and each time they return, the township is improved in some way.

(They'd led the charge into the Cultists' den, into the literal dungeon from which they'd retrieved him - helped return a monster in flesh and spirit to some notion of health and humanity. The only thing that surprised him was that they found time to _sleep_.)

...well, he was _slightly_ surprised that they'd prioritized the restoration of places like the _Brothel_ alongside the Sanatorium and Abbey.

They'd ducked their head but smiled when he'd asked, and their reasoning made sense - the many dysfunctional personalities necessary to keep Evil from overflowing banged and clanged together til it was amazing that no one had been throttled in the streets - or Dungeons. Warm, willing bodies and flowing drink were as essential to maintaining that delicate harmony as prayer and flagellation, he supposed.

(And then tried quite hard indeed not to think about warm, willing bodies and the Heir's warm, wicked smile-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~shoutout to past me for leaving a chapter buffer i totally forgot about XD~~
> 
> Hey to everyone still keeping up with this! You may be surprised to hear that 2020 has been a biiiit rough... anyways, I'm making an effort to get back on this one, thanks for your patience!


End file.
